Choose to Change
by ratluck1
Summary: What happens when a depressed and troubled disk jockey meets an upbeat family of eleven? With the help of some musical memories, join Lincoln, his sisters, and some new friends as they enjoy the music that matters most to them.


**Lyrics to** _ **Don't Want to Know If You Are Lonely**_ **by Husker –Du (1986)**

"Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, children of all ages! You're listening to WRIF 101.1 FM out of Royal Woods, M-I!"

Sitting alone in a dimly lit studio on a Friday night in the center of town was all a part of Dylan's life for as long as he could remember. Being born on the opposite side of the state, on the opposite side of the socio-economic spectrum, on the opposite side of the world in almost every conceivable way…it was comfortable to him to be in the dark, dank little space he found himself in regularly. It was more than he was used to, but also not too far from what he knew.

"I'm your host, Dylan the Duuuuuuuuuuuuuude! And I welcome you to another edition of the hottest Friday night rock show in history, "The Breaking Point!"

Dylan really loved media. All kinds of it. Radio, television, cinema…it all was so interesting to him. So much larger than life, so much larger than _his_ life. Growing up in a small town (technically a village, according to census definitions) was so boring and dull to him. If you weren't playing basketball, you were finding some way to get yourself into trouble. Dylan didn't like any sort of sports, and his late grandparents had instilled in him the values and virtues designed to keep someone out of trouble that he had to turn to a rather unique and unusual third option.

"And here on "The Breaking Point", it's a long way to the top if you want to rock and roll! But don't worry, ladies and gents; we've got two hours of great commercial free bangers and hits that're sure to kickstart your Friday night!"

Whenever his father was away drinking (which was almost always, in his mind), Dylan would dig through his dad's collection of old CDs and vinyl records. Working in a record shop naturally lead to having an almost infinite collection of stolen music at his disposal (his father would always insist they were "appropriated"). It was this very collection that would serve as something more than a distraction for the young dude: an escape. No matter how often his parents would fight, or how often he would get hit at school, or even simply how often he would find himself alone, he was never truly alone. With his speakers blasting everything from Mozart to Metallica, how on earth could he ever be lonely?

"But tonight, we've got a special treat for all of you loyal listeners! I won't be jamming out by myself in the studio tonight! With the weight of the world on my shoulders, pressuring me to find the best and brightest artists for your listening pleasure, I've decided that I'd open my door here to you! The station door is open to you, on Royal Oak Avenue, 1523 if you please. That's 1523 Royal Oak Avenue! Come on down and gather round, for an epic journey through rock and roll history!"

Okay, so he COULD be lonely. Every once in a while, Dylan would open up the studio to anyone who wanted to come and hang around. One-hundred percent of the time, his invitation went unaccepted, ignored like a fleeting leaf in the wind on a cold Michigan winter night. During his introductory monologue every week, he'd often take a glance out of the small window in the station to check out what was going on across the street. On this particular night, however, there was not a soul to be found. What looked to be about seven inches of snow replaced the usual hustle and bustle of downtown Royal Woods. If no one had ever made the trip down to the studio in GOOD weather to come hang with him, what sorry sap would brave a blizzard to see his ugly mug?

"For those of you who are tuning in for the first time, let me explain to you the gist of this whole "The Breaking Point" thing."

That is, if anyone tuned in at all.

"Throughout the show, I play whatever I think rocks. I play great music, you guys listen to great music! I tell stories, and you dudes and dudettes get to hear said sweet stories. Simple as that."

For them, anyway. For him, he had so many crazy and colorful buttons to press in order not to tank the broadcast or kill the airwaves. Even though he'd done this stuff for twelve years, it never really became "simple" ever. But, he reasoned, if this is what he enjoyed doing with his life, it could be as complicated as it wanted to be.

"Simply put, let's start off tonight with a great tune from our neighbors across the pond. And no, anglophiles, I don't mean jolly ole' England. I'm talkin' about those cool cats from Saint Paul, Minnesota. Here's some Husker-Du for ya here on…"The Breaking Point!"

After the flip of a switch and the press of a button, the scraggly disk jockey collapsed in his chair lazily, his unkempt brown hair falling over his face and obscuring his field of vision. The silence that previously filled the air surround him while speaking on the microphone was skewered and sliced in half by the harsh, untuned guitar riffs and reckless drumbeats that opened up his first song of the night.

 _I'm curious to know exactly how you are_

 _I keep my distance but that distance is too far_

Punk music had always appealed to Dylan. He was never rude, impolite, or outright rebellious to anyone in his life. But there was something about the face paced, dirty instrumentation that really resonated with him. It was gritty, rough, imperfect…just like him.

 _It reassures me just to know that you're okay_

 _But I don't want you to go on needing me this way_

Although he could do without the melodramatic lyrics. Did they have to be so whiney about being so isolated from the world? Guess it's fair to say that SOMEONE had to, or else everyone would cry about being lonely.

 _And I don't want to know if you are lonely_

 _Don't want to know if you are less than lonely_

…

 _Don't want to know if you are lonely_

 _Don't want to know, don't want to know_

…

Damnit, HE was lonely.

"Get used to it, dude." He thought aloud, glancing at the faded woodwork that made up the front door to the studio. "You're not getting any less than lonely."

 _The day you left me, left me feeling oh so bad_

 _Baby, I'm not sure about all the doubts we had_

Mom? Dead and gone. Dad? Might as well be the same. Aunts and uncles? He didn't want anything to do with them. Brothers or sisters? None that would admit to the relation, that's for sure. Girlfriend? Not after what happened last time. Boyfriend? Eh, he may be a little into that, if he could find a guy who'd treat him right. Heaven knows it'd be the first time, right?

 _From the beginning we both knew it wouldn't last_

 _Decisions have been made, the die has been cast_

Just as he was getting comfortable in his poorly upholstered leather "radio host "chair, something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. He swiveled his way over to the desk adjacent to his to find a small silver object just sitting there, waiting ever so patiently to be put in its proper place.

 _I don't want to know if you are lonely_

 _Don't want to know if you are less than lonely_

 _Don't want to know if you are lonely_

 _Don't want to know, don't want to know_

Dylan chuckled to himself, thinking about the punk rock anthem surrounding him being sung by an anthropomorphic key, singing about be left behind by a lock on some "perfect door" or whatever. Picking up the lonely little key, he leapt onto his feet and starting his slow stride towards the door.

"Might as well lock up." He muttered, closing the distance rather quickly. "I don't actually want some crazy druggie to get in here. Think of the paperwork nightmare THAT would be, dude."

Being six-foot-three made every task in a building built for normal sized people annoying at best and infuriating at worst. As per usual, the door's lock was placed a little lower than Dylan was used to. He grunted a sigh of discontent, knowing he'd have to kneel down to properly lock the darned thing. After a moment of contemplation, he knelt down to the bottom lock of the door and inserted the key before-

 _ **TWACK!**_

Before he could register what had happened, Dylan found himself crashing down onto the disgustingly unclean beige-ish carpet that somewhat broke his fall. Yep, looking down at a beige-ish, red-ish carpet sure is a great way of starting off your Friday night…wait.

Red? Well, shucks. Blood is red, isn't it?

After muttering a few obscenities under his breath (he didn't like to curse, something that was instilled in him from his sweet grandma.), Dylan tried to hoist himself off of the floor. He grabbed onto the soft, cushioned part of…something... to help prop himself up and onto his knees.

So, Dylan, you're bleeding and got knocked to the floor by something.

From his knees, he clutched on tighter to the arm he used to get there and forced himself onto his feet. His senses slowly returning to him, he turned towards the door that had sent him tumbling and kicked it closed.

Wait…I used a _what_ to get up?

Dylan spun around in a state of panic, finally connecting the dots of what had just transpired. Confirming his assumption was the massive amount of bodies now occupying the studio space before him. At first glance, the crowd of people looked like a rainbow got really drunk and puked on another rainbow that also happened to be wearing a tye-dyed shirt. At least eleven differently colored pieces of headwear and insulated winter jackets were now present in front of him, each accompanied by a mildly relieved face.

"Um, excuse me?"

Dylan took a glance downward towards the unfamiliar voice. Standing directly in front of him was a middle school boy wearing an orange parka with short white hair sticking out from underneath his winter cap. Once the boy knew he had his attention, he continued.

"We're sorry to be a bother, but our van kinda got stuck in the snow, and the weather isn't looking like it's going to get much better…" he stated, rubbing the back of his neck with his Michigan-shaped mittens. Or where they mitten-shaped Michigan…whatever. "My name is Lincoln, by the way. We don't mean to inconvenience you, but would mind if we waited out the storm in here?"

"Yeah, man. The snow is threatening our very lives today. If we don't get some shelter, we're gonna fade away!" the purple-clad girl wearing punk rock boots added, coming up from behind him and throwing her arms over his shoulders, pushing some sort of object close to his face. "Speaking of which, dude, you might want to bandage that up. Sorry about that, luv."

"That totally wouldn't have happened if Lynn would've shown some delicacy and grace for once in her life."

"Hey, I have grace! How do you think I got onto the roller derby team on my first tryout?"

"From my observation of your tryout tape, you got accepted into the barbaric sport of roller skate combat due to your excessive clumsiness resulting in the disruption of the opposing team's formation." The bespectacled brown haired girl said, a lisp and a monotone setting her apart from the rest.

"Um, can you say that again in English, Lise?" Lynn asked, tilting her head to the side. "Maybe in a language some of us can understand?"

Lisa scoffed, putting her hands on her hips. "You're so bad that you actively screw up the opposing team."

"I am not! I mean, I do not!" Lynn shouted, taking a step or two towards her little sister.

"Girls, girls, let's just settle down." The tallest blonde of the bunch said, pushing the two girls apart. "Like, we can't have you two literally killing each other here in this…dump."

"Although, I totes adore the retro-style of the uniforms they wear here!" the second-tallest girl exclaimed, pinching Dylan's shoulder to feel the fabric of his shirt.

"Um, it's not really a uniform, but…thanks?" Dylan replied, motioning towards the sliding door to the radio booth. "Go ahead and make yourselves comfortable. Don't touch anything, though. That stuff's worth more than my house."

Of course that equipment is worth more than your house, Dylan. You don't have a house.

"Sweet!"

"Rad!"

"Totes cool!"

"Hey, think I'll get to be on the air?"

"Only after I read my poem. The world at large needs to hear about the futility of human existence."

"Booooooring!"

"Yeah, besides, people don't want dumb old poetry. They want tips on how to trick out their cars!"

"Ew, gross! We all know that beauty tips are totally the only reason why people listen to the radio anymore."

"Hey, Lincoln, isn't this the station that aired that dorky comic thing you like?"

"You mean _Ace Savy and the Deck-laration of War?"_

One by one, the girls (and their brother) funneled into the booth and gathered around the equipment, jabbering amongst themselves. The littlest ones were either fighting or arguing, while the smallest of the bunch was simply enjoying the stack of old blankets he kept in the corner in case of emergencies. With the help of her white-haired compatriot, the little blonde haired baby delivered one to each of her sisters before she herself snuggled up with him and her own blanket. The older guests found themselves fascinated by different items around the booth, while the brunette rocker found herself enamored by some of the classic rock memorabilia hanging on the station walls.

Dylan the Dude took a seat back at his desk, looking through a large rolodex containing a plethora of different disks as a faint but noticeable smiled found itself upon his face.

 _But I don't want to know if you are lonely_

 _Don't want to know if you are less than lonely…_

With an audience as big as this, how lonely could he be?


End file.
